


Peace on Blood

by booktick



Series: A Taste for Healing [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Incest, Nostalgia, Self-Reflection, post-adwd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 15:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booktick/pseuds/booktick
Summary: She had a gift for appearing gentle. Whether it was of heart or not, depended on the person that was asked.





	Peace on Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise.
> 
> A/N: This is meant to be set post-ADWD but with an AU twist sort of I guess. A moment of reflection for Cersei really.

* * *

The wine would be poured by her and her alone. She did not permit others to gather her drink for her. Her eyes lifted occasionally, in a veiled threat perhaps, and the servants would retreat with tails between their legs. She would keep her stare steady until her door shut and she could breathe.

It was more of a sigh really rather than a breath for Cersei, often one of utter contempt. It was exhausting, all of it. The smiles from clumsy handmaidens and flattery from pox scarred lords. It was her drink that gave her cheeks the warmth that her twin abandoned in exchange for the sapphires of Tarth. She could drown her hate in drink, as Robert had done for years. She dreamed of red seas each night, it was never clear if it were blood or wine.

She sought for both.

She would go, wine in one hand and blade in the other, and watch her boy play king while all of King's Landing knew who wore the crown. His golden curls and rosy cheeks matched her better than Jaime. He was hers and hers alone. Not even her wine would take away her love for her children. Robert had the luxury of doing the opposite. Tommen had none of Robert in him, no influence from his rosy lord and for that she was grateful.

Her curly haired boy and his kittens. The thought would let her smile, even for only a breath. It was a brief sense of peace before the grief would come again. She thought of her first golden boy, her sweet boy, her little lion with pouted lips and a familiar hate in those eyes. And her smiles would fade to ash and she would jeer at her reflection in the mirror.

What a foolish girl, with wine spilt tears and ruby lips. She could have stepped over them all. Lord Stark, the coward, had let her husband take a throne he did not earn. Some high born lad drives a sword through a dragon, it does not make him King. If Jaime had resisted, had remained sitting...perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps it would have been Robert who married some Riverrun harlot that reminded him of the Stark girl and she would have had Jaime. But that was a fantasy that was better left unspoken regardless of how many times she touched upon it.

Her twin would remain with the tart of Tarth and she would satisfy her hunger with what she could. It wasn't too difficult to find someone willing to rise up from their bootstraps. Everyone in this world had a price. Lannisters were good at paying their own debts. She would do the same. She did not crave wine alone.

It is on cold nights like these that thoughts like this come to her, and it is often cold of the late. Ned Stark whispers in her head of Winter and she hates him for it. The man was without a head of his own and he still found time to bother. It was true though, in the end, it was true. There were talk of snow falling, faint and grazing the fields of green. The last Winter lasted for some time and this one would be worse. She would find it easier to sleep by Winters' arrival.

Her cup is empty by the time she settles on a gown of silk for bed that night. She will wear nothing under it and let the air embrace her flesh with goosebumps. As if she were young and naive again, all those nights at Casterly Rock left to collect dust inside her mind. She would place the cup to her lips for a good night kiss before it's placed upon her table.

A roll of her eyes and she finds herself bare under her furs. The gown of silk hung over a chair that no longer holds her brother's weight. As for the creature, the scents from his gaudy oils lingered in the cushion. She stared at the chair for a breath and it was forgotten for a time. Her fingers would flex over the furs, stretched out like a lions' paws. She listened to the night and it was calm.

King's Landing settled in for the night, all lights blown and doors locked. This was not a time for festivities, even with their King upon a throne. Joffrey had been enough reminder that this was a time for caution. At least this created moments for her to rest, even Cersei Lannister needed that. There might have been the occasional sprout of gossip whether Cersei slept at all during her moments of taking to bed but that was only gossip. Cersei appreciated the quiet of the nights of the last few months.

There were no prayers from birds or whispers from spiders, nothing of the sort. It was her and her cup of wine, steady as ever. She turned her head from time to time, to look to the golden cup. It could be ruined, same as she. It would be terribly easy to tarnish it. Her little brother had done so too easily to their mother. What would stop another from doing the same to her?

She was Lady of Casterly Rock. She would not let that happen. They could have her walk through the streets bare to the world, scarlet toes and sun kissed cheeks, with a bell to shame her. Their voice would be snuffed out by her. Her storm could drown them all. She would bash their heads in if she had to, golden cup and all. The jewels around the cup would fall from each strike and could clatter at her feet for it. But that was a dream. Though dreams could be made.

The night ends often with these thoughts. Her eyelids heavy and warm, fall shut and lashes kiss her cheeks. Her chest rises and falls much like a dynasty. She holds onto the furs until sleep loosens her grip. The soft breaths that leave the Queen mother are not without grace and beauty. She had a gift for appearing gentle. Whether it was of heart or not, depended on the person that was asked. Cersei had seemed gentle of heart to Ned Stark once.

 _Once_.

And look where Ned Stark slumbered.


End file.
